


Perennial

by avani



Category: The Secret Garden - Frances Hodgson Burnett
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Gen, Racebending
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-25
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-11 02:29:15
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,764
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28277667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/avani/pseuds/avani
Summary: When Mridula came to serve the Lennoxes, she was not in the least disagreeable-looking. She could not afford to be.(Mary's parents survive the cholera epidemic and stay in India. This does not mean that the garden, or its magic, is done with her.)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 70
Collections: Yuletide 2020





	Perennial

**Author's Note:**

  * For [fresne](https://archiveofourown.org/users/fresne/gifts).



When Mridula came to serve the Lennoxes as a replacement for her deceased older sister, she was not in the least disagreeable-looking. She could not afford to be. The Lennoxes, glittering leaders of fine society, might have their pick of pretty girls to serve as their daughter’s _ayah_ ; while Mridula’s family, now that Sadhvi was dead, would certainly starve without the rupees they so carelessly paid. So she smiled, and ducked her head, and agreed it was a pity that cholera had carried away Sadhvi when the Lennoxes had so barely survived; and when Mrs. Lennox, hearing her name, decided it was too difficult to pronounce and dubbed her “Martha” instead, Mridula only nodded and said, “Yes, _memsahib_.”

A terribly useful word, _memsahib_. It might mean anything from “you vain fool” when Mrs. Lennox strutted down the hallways like a particularly overdressed peacock; to “you poor thing” when Mridula had her first look at Mrs. Lennox’s sallow-faced, unsmiling offspring; to “you miserable wretch,” when Mrs. Lennox blithely announced that her duties would include cooking and cleaning the nursery, given the shortage of staff and the Captain’s penny-pinching ways. So long as Mridula smiled blandly and remembered to speak her carefully-accented English, it might mean anything at all. 

That was to be her only consolation. The Lennoxes lived in the cantonment, of course, but their house sprawled over the landscape like a bland gray mountain; Mridula, accustomed to great grassy fields and the gurgle of the river, felt she might as well have been thrown into gaol. At least there she might have the promise of a speedy execution. Instead she was taken through the corridors of the Lennoxes’ glittering abode, and then bustled into the far less attractive servants’ quarters, and the housekeeper allowed her a small squat room where she might shake out her bedding and set down her cutting from Mother’s _tulsi_ plant. 

At night she hugged the memory of Sadhvi to her: Sadhvi, for whatever reason, had loved the girl to stay behind in a city marked by cholera, had laughed when writing on her holidays of tantrums and slaps. “If the little witch should slap me,” Mridula told herself, “I should slap her back.”

The words echoed in her little cell, and Mridula turned over on her cot. Self-deception did nothing for honest grief; no more did taunting a half-grown child who couldn’t defend herself. “Why did you _leave_ me here?” she whispered into the darkness, and forced herself asleep before she might find herself awaiting an answer.

*

The _tulsi_ from which Mridula’s plant had been taken rested in a fine white-brick edifice that was the pride of the family courtyard. Every morning Mridula’s mother would awake early, stencil elaborate designs on the side, and carefully weed and water around it. On festival days, Mother would place a leaf upon her children’s tongues, pepper-bright and bitter in taste, and offer up a lamp in worship. 

Mridula’s plant sat in a squat clay pot, sprawling in stagnant water, far from home. It was nothing to her memories, nothing to Mother’s example, nothing to home. 

She turned her face away. 

*

In the morning Mary was already awake when Mridula came for her. In other families, she understood, _ayahs_ were meant to sleep beside their charges; but in recent months, the Lennox household had relaxed that requirement. It confused her until she remembered: Sadhvi’s illness. Even now, they must blame her for its spread throughout the mansion, though it had sprung from her witless employer: but what was one further insult to her sister’s memory?

Mary blinked at her, those too-sharp pale eyes glinting in the morning sun. “I know who you are,” she said. “You’re Saidie’s sister.”

“Yes, _memsahib_ ,” said Mridula.

“Martha.”

“Yes, _memsahib_ ,” said Mridula.

A pause, and Mary sat up in bed. “Saidie is dead,” she pronounced, as tonelessly as though she spoke of the weather. _Saidie is dead_ , as though Sadhvi hadn’t caught her after every stumble when learning to walk, dressed every cut and scrape, offered up food into that spoiled, sullen mouth. _Saidie is dead_ , and no amount of hatred would make it any less untrue.

“Yes, _memsahib_ ,” said Mridula.

*

Mary intentionally spilled her ink and refused to attend during her lessons. She tore her stockings and muddied her dresses. She scowled and insisted on being allowed to roam the courtyards even at the height of noon. She did not speak Sadhvi’s name again, even once.

Mridula followed, scrubbing at the desk so that it shone once more, carefully stitching repairs, making sure to keep the youngest Lennox well out of her parents’ way. That was all that mattered, the older servants explained; as long as Mary would not affront her mother with her ugliness and her father with her insolence, she might live no better than a dog. If anything, the child had been subdued of late; a blessing from the gods given her usual escapades. 

She should be grateful, Mridula was told, again and again; and so she did her very best to be. 

And yet: in the corner of her room, the _tulsi_ plant withered. 

*

Matters came to a head on a humid afternoon just before the monsoon. Mary roamed the courtyard, humming to herself and harrowing the dry earth. Mridula followed behind, a few steps afterwards. It was just the sort of weather, she thought suddenly, that her sister had loved best: when the promise of rain was in the air, sharp and sweet to smell. Faint thunder rumbled, and for an instant, Mridula forgot to be miserable. 

And then she realized what song the girl was singing. 

Mridula knew every word, every note of it: Sadhvi had sung it to her and their siblings every night before she had been sent away to the Lennoxes’ ten years ago. To hear it sung here, and now, and _how_ \--

She stopped short. “No,” she said, very softly, and then, as though worried Mary Lennox might not have heard: “You wicked, heartless thing, don't you _dare_!"

Mary fell silent, and only then did Mridula realize what she had done. The lack of the _memsahib_ , the lack of all meekness, the _anger_ that echoed in her voice were enough, on their own, to see her dismissed. The shock on Mary Lennox’s face at seeing herself contradicted would be ten times more damning; even the word of a child, young as she was, would be worth far more than Mridula’s own. Another rumble, and the cloudburst was upon them. Her charge stood before her, white-faced and wet, and the ground at their feet turned to mud.

There was nothing more to be done. Mridula turned on her heel and ran.

*

Mary found her in the servants’ quarters.

“You’re not meant to be here,” said Mridula, with desperate haughtiness. When she was to be turned out at once, what did it matter how many offenses it was for? “This much, at least, is mine.”

The girl, unsurprisingly, ignored her. Instead she turned to study the _tulsi_ plant, limp and brown-edged in its pot. “Is this yours, too?” she wanted to know.

Mridula nodded, even as she continued to fold and pack her clothes away.

Mary frowned. “It needs water,” she said.”

“It has water,” Mridula pointed out. “All the water I can spare from my meals, and more from the well besides.”

“Well--” Mary lifted the pot up to peer at its bottom. “Sunlight, then.”

“That, too, it has. You see it rests beside the window.”

Mary put the _tulsi_ plant back down with a glower. “Then why won’t it grow?” she demanded, as though this fact was an offense against her in particular. 

Mridula thought of the vast brick well back home, with mingled parts disappointment and longing. “It needs space, I would imagine. More freedom to grow than it finds here.”

“I can find it space!” said Mary, brightening. It was an abrupt change: all of a sudden, there was a rosiness to her cheeks that had not been there before, a brightness to the eyes. For a sudan strange instant, Mridula could almost see what Sadhvi had found to love in this child. “If I find it space, then will it grow? The far kitchen gardens haven’t been used in every so long. Cook wouldn’t mind if we cleaned it up.”

“Perhaps,” said Mridula. “But it won’t matter. I’ll take it back with me, when I’m sent away.”

Mary looked down, her unexpected beauty fading. “And if you’re not?”

Mridula found herself laughing incredulously. “And, if, by the will of the gods, I am not, then I swear to you that I will work to empty the kitchen gardens of weeds beside you without complaint; and bring this _tulsi_ to flower with these my own hands.”

There was no answer, only another stare from Mary’s uncanny eyes, but Mridula could not rid herself to the sudden conviction that she had bound herself to a solemn vow. 

*

She wasn’t shaken awake by the housekeeper and told to go, not that night nor the next; and in the morning that followed the monsoon's end, Mridula knew the time had come to keep her word. Silently she followed Mary out to the far gardens: as overgrown and unruly as promised. Still, the gods listened when humans made their unwise vows, and she who forsake them paid for it later. She would have no choice but to see the garden made whole, like it or not.

A terrible task, and yet: a mynah sang at the garden gate, with a melody Mridula knew like her own soul. Mary heard it too. Every note as they remembered; every syllable a command.

“We’ll plant the _tulsi_ first,” Mridula said, once they had cleared enough land to try, and Mary--hands filthy, face flushed with happiness--nodded. It might only have been Mridula’s imagination, but the green stalks seemed to stand a little straighter as soon as it was transplanted. 

“A blessing upon a house,” Mary whispered to herself, looking at the little plant. “That’s what Saidie always said.”

And for the first time Mridula could remember, she did not want to correct little Mary Lennox, did not want to insist she bite back her words. She might not love her as her sister had, but she might yet hope to befriend her. So much more of the garden remained to bring to life, and after all, the _tulsi_ plant must be made to flower. 

Somewhere, not so far away, the mynah that cried out with Sadhvi’s voice began to sing again.

**Author's Note:**

> * fresne, your prompt for other angry girls forced to move far from home, and who ultimately find their peace in caring for others and creating a garden was all I needed to create this story: as a young reader, this novel was one of my comfort reads, and yet I couldn't shake my unease at the casual imperialistic dismissal of Mary's Indian experiences and acquaintances, the classism, and the what-if possibility of Mary's parents never dying. Thank you so much for the change to write this, and I hope you enjoy it!  
> * "Saidie" is indeed what Mary calls her ayah in Chapter 1. This is not at all like any usual Indian name, so I've renamed the character, and assumed that Saidie is a mispronunciation.  
> * The _tulsi_ or holy basil plant is planted in many Hindu households, usually in the elaborate set-ups Mridula describes. Care of the plant is indeed meant to confer blessing and protection upon the household.  
> * The hill mynah bird is known for its ability to imitate the human voice, but also for startling lovely plumage. It is also native to India.


End file.
